


elegy

by ndnickerson



Category: Jane Eyre - Charlotte Brontë
Genre: F/M, Married Couple, Minor Character Death, Post-Book(s), Sex, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-25
Updated: 2011-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-28 02:40:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/302836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ndnickerson/pseuds/ndnickerson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jane receives an entirely expected letter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	elegy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alwaysamy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alwaysamy/gifts).



> Yuletide treat! Set soon after the conclusion of the novel.

  
_Mrs. Edward Rochester,_   


  
_It is with no small regret and every expectation of glory that I write you now._   


Jane closes her eyes for a moment. She has no wish to read the rest of it; what circumstance, what scenario could soften this blow? None, she knows.

But she can't help herself. He died with a prayer on his lips, reports the stranger. He is in the eternal embrace, now.

With a sigh Jane heads to her small secretary, to her stationery. She must express her sympathies to Diana and Mary. On the way there, though, the scent of a freshly-baked pie draws her to the kitchen. She contents herself with a slice of leftover apple and a scrap of cheese, feeling rather like she's managed to get away with something. At Lowood she would have considered such a snack a delicacy, and she imagines that India would have left her starving for such simple food.

A lonely grave under sun-bleached sand. A plot he meant for two.

The steward is closed with Edward in the study, and Jane has the terrible letter folded in her hand when the door swings open. "Jane, nymph," her husband calls, and she answers with a slight smirk on her face. The steward is accustomed to Edward's small pranks, and doesn't bat an eyelash when she steps into the study and closes the door behind her.

She sometimes feels she's more than his right hand or the perfection of his sight, now. She has learned so much about the tending of his lands and his money, his affairs, that she looks back on his intrigues with Blanche Ingram with what could almost pass for affection. There are no secrets between them now.

"If you would be so kind."

She lets him make the true decisions, reporting the pertinent information; she could sway him in whatever direction she desired, but he does not mind. He trusts her, and she him. Betraying him would feel like divorcing herself from one of her own limbs.

As soon as their business with the steward is complete, Edward sends him to the kitchen to beg a late lunch off the cook and closes the door behind the man. The fire crackles in the stillness, a bold wash of brilliant flame he can perceive even without her. "You're upset."

She smiles, a little. There's no point in denying it. He takes her hand in his good one and she wraps her other arm around him, squeezing him softly. "Later."

"Shall I woo it from you with kisses?" He lowers his face to hers, and she closes her eyes as he nuzzles against her cheek. "You cannot keep secrets from me long, my dear."

"Nor would I try," she replies, and their lips brush, and even after ten years of marriage the sensation still sends a small shiver down her spine. "For too long, anyway. But I do relish the thought of your inquisition."

She doesn't, not really, and he has to know that, even as her fingers thread into his hair while he kisses her. She flushes with delight at such intimacy in the middle of the day, but even the thought of one of the servants witnessing this isn't enough to part them. Besides, every servant they have has managed to catch them in such an embrace.

She's grateful for the strength of his arm around her waist when he finally pulls back. "Shall we survive another year?" he teases her, his clouded gaze steady on hers.

"Only by virtue of my ample assets," she says, leading him to an armchair. "I suppose I shall keep you for a while longer. But you must promise me something utterly extravagant for Christmas."

"And what would my sweet little Jane like for Christmas? A new ballgown in a becoming shade of peacock blue? A menagerie of exotic animals to study and cultivate?"

"You, my darling, are all the menagerie I need," she says. "And a ballgown? To wear when I am keeping your books, no doubt."

"We could host a ball."

Jane goes still and quiet. She has no complaints about their life together, but their life is theirs alone. Her husband was never the most social of creatures, and his sensitivity over his disfigurement has faded only with her continued encouragement. Surely the townspeople and their neighbors must have questions, swap rumors about them, but Jane has never brought herself to care for the opinion of others. It's her own heart and conscience she must answer to.

"Your enthusiasm is overwhelming," he says dryly.

"Well, the dress shan't be peacock-blue," she replies.

The prospect of the ball is almost enough to distract her from the contents of the letter. Edward is a man; he doesn't understand what he's asking, but Jane has some idea. The list of guests must be assembled, furniture decided, decorations selected. A Christmas ball is a monumental undertaking.

She waits until they're alone in their room, preparing for bed, to ask the question that's been on her mind all day. "Why?"

"Why..."

Jane runs her comb through her long hair again and again before swiftly plaiting it. "Why a ball, darling?"

He shrugs. "We haven't had a proper one. And you seem... preoccupied."

The letter. She crosses to the edge of the bed, where he has already sat down, and puts her arms around him, resting her cheek against the crown of his head. "St. John," she says quietly. "He passed."

Edward nods. "Not unexpectedly."

She shakes her head, and she doesn't even think about holding it back. "I couldn't help but think about..."

"About what he asked?"

She moves beside him, to sit on the bed. In the light of the few bare candles, she knows that he can see less of her face than usual, but she takes his hand and it's almost as good. "It would have killed me, that life with him," she admits softly, but he knows that already. "I would be long dead by now. And without you, that fate didn't seem so terrible as it once did."

He looses her hand and cups her cheek, his palm warm against the cold air in their chamber. "I thank God every day that you didn't go," he says, his voice a little rough. "I would be long dead by now, without you."

She clucks her tongue, but stands up on her knees, cupping his face under her own palms. "So that string between us," she whispers. "That wouldn't have been enough."

"It _was_ enough," he corrects her, and gently rubs the tip of his nose against hers. "Because you're here."

She shakes her head wonderingly. "Love," she murmurs, brushing her thumbs against his cheeks. "How is it that we deserve this."

He shakes his head. "We don't."

When his mouth captures hers, when his arm slides around her waist, she sighs a little, already thumbing her gown open. She is just as impatient for it as he has ever been, and as soon as he can he takes the loose fabric of her gown in a fist and tugs it down her shoulders until her breasts are bare. She frees her arms and straddles his waist, her hips fitting snug against his.

"After ten years practicing the marital arts, I would expect you to be better at it," he teases her, lifting her to her knees so he can nuzzle against her breast. "Instead I am reduced to all these tender caresses, while you stay so stubbornly attired."

"You're easily distracted, love," she moans, sliding her fingers into his hair, tilting her head back. Her eyes are heavy-lidded in delight. "And I do believe I am expert at lying on my back, waiting." Her cheeks are flushed but she's bright-eyed, and there's laughter in her voice.

"You are, at that." He draws his shirt above his waist and she sinks to him again, letting out a soft squeal of surprise when he begins to lie down. "And my little witch of infinite patience, you may take what you wish tonight."

She gazes down at him. "A promise that whatever gown you select for me will not make me look like an exotic waterfowl."

He touches her cheek as she begins to draw his shirt up, savoring the thought of bare skin against hers. "You would be resplendent in a deep indigo," he pronounces, and lets her draw the shirt over his head. "The color of royalty. Chin high. Jewels dripping at your throat and wrists."

She strips her gown off and moves her hips deliberately, fitting the length of her inner lips against his sex, then leans down, sliding up until she can face him. "I will wear the cheapest black cotton I can find," she vows, and moves down, smiling as he exhales loudly.

"And you will doubtless tease and torment me until you get your way," he sighs, and the fingers of his good hand drift down the length of her spine. "Rich red the color of a summer apple and ribbons to match."

"A drab olive-grey edged in grandmother's lace," she says, her eyes sewn shut in pleasure as the tip of his sex finds some particular answer against her own. She grinds down and his hand presses against the small of her back in response, pushing her harder against him.

"Evergreen tight as I want to hold you."

"Spiderwebs and straw," she murmurs, panting. "I'll shame you utterly. They will all see that you married the chamber-maid."

"The ultra-competent, gloriously true governess," he corrects, and when their hips are almost angled he rolls with her, so that she's pinned under his weight. She wraps her legs around him, and finds that they're still so close to the edge of the bed that he's actually on his feet.

"Edward," she whispers, grasping his hips, then sliding one hand between them to help guide him into place. The first few times she had to do it, she was flushed bright scarlet in the dark. Now she feels the slick glide of her arousal on his sex and pumps him in her fist a few times before guiding his head between the wet press of her inner lips.

"Jane," he groans, just before he sheathes himself in her completely. "Silver-white. Even if I have to strip you naked and dress you myself."

"Which, would take you, a good, three days, easily," she manages to gasp out between thrusts. Having his weight on the floor gives him greater leverage, and the depth and speed of his thrusts have her every nerve on fire. Her hips tremble as they move under his. She can feel herself tightening, becoming more tender around him.

"Promise."

"Promise," she replies, and slides one hand into his hair as he undulates over her. When they were first married, when her virginity was still newly lost, she was lucky if he lasted more than a couple of minutes. She has no idea what changed, but now she has him trained, and if she tells him that the tension has grown beyond what she can bear, the release he gives her, that he has himself, is exquisite.

"I want them to see you, as I see you."

She bites her lip. She knows what he means. His chest brushes against her nipples and she circles her hips under his, and oh, _God_ , how the pleasure becomes almost painful when he slips down half an inch and the angle of him changes.

"An angel. My own angel."

She has to swallow to find her voice. "I am no angel," she says, and her voice rises at the end of it in a pleased cry. "I just had the excellent good taste to fall in love with you, oh, _Edward,_ " she sobs out, her legs tightening around him.

"Tell me how it feels," he whispers in her ear, and ridiculously she flushes at the contact.

"Like I was made for no other purpose," she replies, and groans again, burying her face against his chest. "Oh, my love."

She writhes and jerks under him, feeling him begin to lose that control, the patience he now finds only in their bed. She draws her knees up and tightens around him and he groans, his thrusts becoming short and hard, leaving her oversensitized, almost too tender beneath him. At the first clench of her inner flesh he collapses to the bed and trembles in his own release, hot and hard inside her.

She loves him, practically every second of every day, has loved him for so many years, but never this way, never as she does when they are joined as husband and wife. He grasps her hip and moves up on the bed with her, and she releases a loud cry as his sex pushes even more firmly into hers.

He soothes her with a long kiss, carefully moving out of her. "My angel," he repeats, touching her cheek.

She's still gasping her breath back. "And there you shall be, in coal-black, at my side," she tells him, smiling. "Being very sure not to wince when I tread on your feet, as I shall. My dance lessons, for what they were—"

"Were very poor," he finishes, reaching for the covers and pulling them back, and she scrambles beneath, seeking the warmth left by their bodies. "I suppose I shall suffer through correcting another detriment in your education. I really should petition to get your money back from that place."

She touches his face as he moves under the covers, beside her. "I would not change it," she says softly. "Not much of it. What I went through there was to lead me to you."

"Then I shall just live with it," he sighs, and kisses her. "I shall live through the indignity of escorting a fairy in human form and content myself with the knowledge that she shall warm my bed."

"Always," she says, snuggling in close to him, their bodies still damp with sweat. "Love."

"Love," he replies, and she closes her eyes.

St. John is dead. Buried half a world away under sun-bleached sand.

A fist she didn't even know was clenched within her, finally opens.


End file.
